She's sitting down, smoking, at the best restaurant I can afford. The red dress
she's wearing is probably worth everything I've ever earned. Why is the menu in
French? I look at her, she doesn't care. She doesn't care about me or the fact that the
menu is in an archaic foreign tongue. In fact, she doesn't even glimpse at the menu
before she orders, it's as if it has no relevance. It's just advice. It's not about what the
chef will do but about what he CAN do, and in this sort of place the chef is as powerful
as god and satan put together. She doesn't say much, she's different to how she was
last time. Mind you, last time I saw her she was drunk out of her mind. She's not entertaining
me enough so I look around at the other couples. Boring rich kids, no flair. The waiter or
matredeee or whatever they call them comes up to us with an open bottle of wine. He
tilts it into my glass and it just rides through, edging round and colouring the crystal a bloody
purple. I don't care about her. I don't need her. He's looking at me. I'm not enjoying this.
I pick up the glass of fine wine, snort in the aroma and down it into my gurgling throat.
I slam it onto the table and look at him. She's embarassed, the first sign of life all evening,
she should thank me. He fills my glass again and I down that too. Heads turn at us.
I struggle up and murmur to the waiter, "I think this on'es corked". I pick my coat from the
chair, swing it over my shoulder, the painful one, and stream out into the open neon streets.
Neither she nor the waiter say anything. I never liked Tuesdays.
